Rude Awakenings of a Jane Austen Addict

by Laurie Viera Rigler

Just as I arrange myself on the bed and start watching Pride and Prejudice, a blast of thunderous music obliterates any other sound.

  I’m gonna keep on lovin’ you

  ’Cause it’s the only thing I wanna do. . . .

  The very floor beneath my feet vibrates with the sound. The source must be downstairs, the same source from the day I arrived, when Wes and the ladies took me to see Dr. Menziger.

  What is this music? There is something disturbingly familiar about it—but how?

  I’m gonna keep on lovin’ you

  ’Cause it’s the only thing I wanna do. . . .

  . . . and all at once it is another day, and I am here, in this apartment, and the music, this same music, is blasting from downstairs. I am here with Frank. Not with him exactly, but watching him. I am watching him pile books and CDs into boxes; that one is mine, I think, but I don’t care, for he is moving his things out of this apartment, and I am watching him, bereft, angry about the intrusion of the music, knowing our relationship is over, that he betrayed me, but yet I cannot stop watching him, wanting him, longing for him. And I cannot blot from my mind the picture of myself lying in bed with him, under him, the weight of him on top of me.

  Pounding on the door jolts me out of my reverie, and I scramble to my feet and rush to answer it. It is Wes.

  I feel my face crimson with confusion at the sight of Wes. I can hardly raise my eyes to his countenance, to the clear, sweet goodness in his eyes, a goodness that deserves more than the inconstancy of a woman immersed in improper thoughts of that worthless—what am I thinking? It is as if Wes were my lover and I have just been abed with another man.

  Wes’s voice jolts me from such thoughts. “Guess my truce with Mr. REO Speedwagon is over,” he shouts above the roar of the music.

  “What?”

  “Your neighbor.” He points downward. “I’ll talk to him.”

  “No—he is my neighbor. I shall do it.”

  “But you hate the guy.”

  “All the more reason to make peace, then. Do come in.”

  He does, and I drink in his citron scent as he walks past me into the kitchen. He turns round to give me an encouraging smile, and I nearly melt. Was Deepa imagining an attachment on Wes’s part, or did she really see something that I did not? Ladies often fancy they see more than is there when they are anxious for their friends’ marriage prospects. Ah, well. I must tear myself away and deal with the business at hand.

  And so I take a deep breath to marshal my courage and descend the steps, steeling myself for an encounter with I cannot imagine whom, but certainly not the balding, round, shiny-faced man who answers the door without a word of greeting and blinks at me from behind smudged spectacles.

  “Sir, I am very sorry to intrude upon your privacy, but I wonder, would it be possible—might you consider playing the music a bit more—piano? Although it is not very loud down here, my apartment is so filled with sound that I cannot carry on a conversation without shouting.”

  His face is impassive, his arms crossed.

  “And what’s more,” I add, rather lamely, “I was hoping to watch a movie.”

  To which he replies, in a falsely deep voice with a thick accent, perhaps Russian, “You must allow me to tell you how ardently I admire and love you.”

  I cannot help but smile, and his lips twitch as if wanting to follow suit. “Why, yes,” I say. “How did you know?”

  “My walls are as thin as yours.”

  “Oh, dear. I am very sorry to have disturbed you.”

  Now he looks well and truly astonished. “You know, I almost start to believe that cock-and-bull story your boyfriend told me about you hitting your head.”

  I feel myself blush, more pleased by my neighbor’s assumption than I would like to admit. “He is not my boyfriend, sir, though I did indeed hit my head.”

  “No matter. Though I like him a lot more than the other one, who, you’ll pardon my saying so, was a piece of . . . In any case, I did use the headphones the one who is not your boyfriend gave me.” He shows me a pair of circular silver cuplike things connected by a curved piece and places them on his head momentarily, as if to demonstrate. “Excellent sound, I must say. He’s not cheap, that not-boyfriend of yours. In any case, I was only just playing my music without them because you were not at home. At least I thought you were not at home.”

  “Might I inquire how you would know I was not at home?”

  “Because I can hear those high-heeled shoes of yours clomp- clomp-clomping on the wooden floor above my head just like you hear my music pound-pound-pounding in your feet. And so you see, Miss Courtney Stone, this is what we call a two-way street, no?”

  “Indeed I am very sorry to have disturbed you. Might I make amends?”

  Now he raises both eyebrows, and his full lips form a kindly grin. “How hard did you say you hit your head?”

  “I do not exactly know.”

  “No matter. How about this: We both agree to play our music and movies pianissimo? And if we need noise, we use the headphones. Or I make sure you are not at home, and when you come home and the music is too loud, you knock or call and I turn it down. And what do you say to a no-shoes rule in your apartment? Or a carpet? That would do just as well.”

  I can just imagine how my mother would respond to the suggestion of a no-shoes rule. She who punished me for running on the lawn barefooted when I was a little girl. Then again, I can only imagine what she would say had she seen me not only sea-bathing, but swimming like a fish. And practically naked for all the world to see.

  I giggle at the thought and give my neighbor a smile. “No shoes? What a delightful idea.”

  “Happy to oblige,” he says with a little bow.

  I bid my neighbor good-bye. Vladimir is his name, I realize, as I ascend the stairs to my apartment. One of those things I should not know but know anyway. I find myself whistling a melody—that of Vladimir’s song, the one I supposedly hate—and I have to laugh at myself, at Courtney, at the futility of endless war with our fellow creatures. In this case, a good memory is indeed unpardonable. How could I be angry with someone who is only the phantom of a memory which is not even my own? And how satisfying it is to have taken charge and solved my own problem instead of relying, once again, on Wes. Or Paula. Or Anna. Or Deepa. If I am to be an independent woman of these times, then I suppose there is no time like now to begin.

  I let myself into the apartment—after removing my shoes, that is—and join Wes, who rises from his alert posture on the sofa, his eyes searching my face.

  I smile at him, and the tension leaves his features. “That smile, and the sustained quiet, tells me your parlay was a success. I’m impressed.”

  “He was quite reasonable. He’ll use the headphones if I remove my shoes.” It is then that I find myself staring at Wes’s feet. Oh, dear.

  He follows my gaze. And laughs. “Oh.” And kneels down to remove his shoes.

  “I hope it is not too much—I mean, I had not thought of how such a rule might affect my friends.”

  He puts up a hand as if to forestall further apologies. “No problem. I’m proud of you, Courtney. Especially after you said you’d sooner move out than ever try to talk to that man again.”

  “You deserve some of the credit as well for giving him headphones. I would not have thought of that.”

  Especially because I have only just discovered what headphones are.

  “It was very generous and thoughtful of you,” I add. What a dear man he is.

  He shrugs, but I can see his countenance is suffused with pleasure at my praise. “I had that brilliant idea when I took you home from the hospital. You needed rest, and they happened to be in the car. By the way, I gave the old man next door a pair, too; not Bose like I gave to Vladimir, but a decent pair of earbuds.” He smirks. “There was nothing I could do about the rooster next door, however. He was above any kind of bribe. Besides, he lends a certain sort of pastoral charm to our urban landscape, don’t you think?”r />
  “He makes me think I’m back in my father’s—I mean, he reminds me of living in the country.”

  “When have you ever lived in the country?”

  Must choose my words a bit more carefully. “I—well—anyway, giving away your headphones was most generous of you. Which puts me in mind of another matter in which I suspect your generosity is the author.”

  His countenance is most endearingly innocent.

  “Surely the lights, the air conditioner? You must have had a hand in it.”

  “Busted.” He ducks his head and blushes most charmingly. “Last night I couldn’t reach you on your cell or email, so I called your landline and got the recording that it was out of service. Then I drove by and saw the candle in the window. I know I shouldn’t have done it without asking you, but I was afraid you’d say no. So I paid both bills.”

  “Wes, I cannot—”

  “Please. Let me. Besides, there’s not much I could do about it now. It’s all paid for. Though the phone will take another day to be reinstated. At least now that the electric’s on, you can charge your cell phone, which I suppose is dead, too, and that’s why I came by again today, just to see if you’re okay. There just wasn’t any way to reach you by phone.”

  He thrusts his hands in his pockets and looks down at his feet for a moment before meeting my gaze. It is then that my eyes fill with tears.

  “Courtney? You’re not mad, are you?”

  “Sir, your kindness oppresses me.” My voice is shaking, and I pause to draw breath and compose myself.

  Wes’s eyes are kind behind his spectacles. “I’m not so sure I like you calling me ‘sir’ anymore if you’re going to be so serious about it.”

  I smile at him. “Please do not think me ungrateful. I am. I cannot begin to express my gratitude. You are very, very kind. I do insist on repaying you, as soon as I secure employment.”

  I hope it was not imprudent of me to refuse my mother’s offer of money. But how was I to know I would be in Wes’s debt?

  I clear my throat. “Speaking of which—” This is more difficult than I thought. “I have thought about your offer of employment and—”

  He puts up his hand as if to stop me. “I’d like to make you a much better offer.”

  I can hardly breathe. He cannot mean—could he? Is he about to make me the only offer that a gentleman ever makes to a lady he holds dear?

  My heart is pounding so loudly I can almost hear it.

  “Court, are you okay? You’re all red.”

  “I—I’m just thirsty. It was very hot outdoors.”

  He rushes to the kitchen to get me a glass of cold water. “Here. Drink this down.” He smiles ruefully. “I thought you were scared I’d offer you a worse job than helping me with my tax files. Don’t worry—I found you a better job.”

  Stupid, stupid girl. Of course he wasn’t going to make you an offer of marriage. Shall I ever learn the language of this world? Thank heaven he cannot read my thoughts, which set my face to burning again. I look down at my lap and touch the icy glass to my cheek. Quite soothing.

  “Let me buy you a coffee. An iced coffee, if you like. And I’ll tell you all about it, okay?”

  I manage a smile. “Only if you allow me to buy the coffee.”

  For that is what independent women may do with their non-boyfriend gentlemen friends, is it not?

  Twenty-one

  Within five minutes, we are standing before our destination, a squarish, dark brown and bright yellow façade with a rough texture to the walls, a cheerful-looking place with its fresh paint and large, gleaming windows—Wes’s new favorite place, he proclaims; recently opened, best coffees in town—and I catch sight of my reflection in the glass of the door. Yes, it is my reflection, and I am ever more comfortable in thinking so. At this moment, I cannot help but smile at that reflection, for as the door opens and the heady aroma of freshly brewed coffee greets me, I realize all at once that this is a coffeehouse, and who would have imagined that I would ever enter a coffeehouse, something no lady would do in London. And here I am, doing so as an unchaperoned, unmarried woman in the company of an unmarried man. And an unmarried man whom I find ever more handsome and charming.

  No, there is not a missish thought in sight. Nothing shall spoil this moment.

  The coffeehouse is nothing like those my brother has boasted of frequenting. Here is no noisy den of gentlemen smoking pipes, transacting business, and arguing over politics and news. No, the only noise, apart from the staccato music which is not unlike what Paula plays in her car, is visual. Tattooed and bejeweled young men and women with slim figures and wildly dressed hair of multiple hues drink sedately from large cups. Some read books and nibble on pastries; others huddle in murmured conversation. Still others ignore all else while tapping on laptops—another new word I am proud to have at my command.

  As Wes and I queue up for coffees, there is a slight fluttering in my stomach, for this is the first time I am to pay my own way, and I wish not to appear to disadvantage. I have already studied the denominations of all the currency in my purse; now I train my attention on the young men and women in the queue before me. I watch carefully what they do and, in particular, I observe that they put an extra note or a few of the larger coins into the glass bowl next to the money machine—the cash register, I somehow know it is called.

  As we approach the front of the queue, the waitress, a lovely, long-limbed girl with pale skin and enormous, light-brown eyes fringed with thick lashes, greets Wes with a sparkling smile.

  “Sharon,” he says, and kisses her on the cheek. Her hair, which is a rich chestnut, is piled loosely atop her head and fastened with what looks like an enameled stick.

  “And who is this?” she says, favoring me with her smile, and her manner is so engaging that I relinquish the silly impulse I had, for just a moment, to be jealous of Wes’s intimacy with her. Not that I have any right.

  Wes introduces us. She puts out a hand and shakes mine warmly, and I am instantly won over by the sweetness of her smile and the genuine friendliness in her eyes. Besides, it is not improper at all in this world for a single man to kiss the cheek of a single woman. And I remember, with an inward smile, how shocked I was that first time I entered The Fortune Bar and Glenn enfolded me in his arms.

  “So, Sharon,” says Wes, “I heard you’re giving this all up.” He makes a sweeping gesture with his hand.

  She sighs. “Don’t think I won’t miss the place. Best job I ever had. Really.”

  Wes smiles at me. “I swear I didn’t pay her to say that. Sharon here’s off to law school. Gonna be some hotshot attorney.”

  Sharon rolls her eyes and then trains her warm smile on me again. “Not exactly. I’m setting my sights on public policy law, which can be decidedly unglamorous, especially when you’re starting out. Anyway, it’s been a few years since I was in a classroom, except for cramming for the LSATs, and I’ve got a lot to do before I start my new life.”

  “Sam must be heartbroken,” says Wes.

  She laughs. “He’ll live.”

  After we order and I proudly pay for our coffees and muffins, adding what I hope is a generous tip to the glass bowl, Wes and I settle into a couple of cushioned armchairs near the window.

  Wes sips his coffee and sighs contentedly. “I love this place.”

  I lean back into the chair. “It’s very comfortable.”

  He looks down into his cup and pauses before meeting my eyes. “Think you could spend four or five days a week here?”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Sam, the owner, is a good friend. I told him all about you, and the thing is—he’d love to give you Sharon’s job, sight unseen. That’s how much he trusts me. And Sharon. She’d be training you. I know it’s not the most prestigious job in the world, but it’s not a long-term commitment. Sam knows it would only be an interim gig for you. All he asks is that you give him a little notice when you find something else.”

  “I—I don’t know
what to say.”

  “Think about it. You don’t have to decide right now. Tomorrow would be good, though.”

  I, a server of drinks in a coffeehouse. How could I, a gentleman’s daughter, consider for a moment accepting such a situation? Serving drinks for wages. Taking tips. Carrying a tray.

  I watch Sharon laughing with a young man as she removes empty cups and plates from his table and stacks them on her little tray.

  No. I cannot give it another moment’s consideration. I, stoop to a situation that my own housekeeper would spurn to consider? It would be insupportable. There cannot be two opinions on this matter.

  Or can there?

  “You’re insulted, aren’t you,” says Wes, a little defensively, and it is then that I realize I have put my head down and am cradling it in my hands.

  I meet his eyes. I do not wish to appear ungrateful. But is appearing ungrateful worse than being ungrateful? And who am I, in my penurious state, to reject any sort of paying work?

  I can feel the blush spreading from my neck to my cheeks. “I just—I don’t know what to think.”

  “Courtney, there’s nothing wrong with working in a café. I did it one summer. And look at Sharon. She’s our age, top of her class, on her way to being a lawyer, but even if she weren’t, she’d have a decent gig here for as long as this place stays in business. What’s wrong with that?”

  What could I possibly say that would make any sense to him? That I am not who he thinks I am? That I am a gentleman’s daughter who was educated to believe that such work would be a degradation?

  No, he would never understand, even if I could get him to believe that I am not Courtney Stone, that I am someone else from a different world and a different life, a life with inflexible lines between different spheres of society.

  “No offense, Courtney,” says Wes, “but is there anything more demeaning than being an assistant to someone like David? I’d rather work here any day. Especially for Sam. Do you know what he told me when he opened a few months ago? That he wanted to feel like he was serving coffee to guests in his own home. And he wanted his employees to feel that way, too. That’s his vision of a workplace.”